Potter
by boxcat
Summary: AU. He's a disgruntled, part-time Ministry employee that scored poorly on his latest peer-review. He's a masked vigilante who stands up against the tyranny of Lord Voldemort's rule. He's Harry Dursley, a mediocre journalist living a day-to-day existence in a world where no one's heard of The Boy Who Lived, but everyone's heard of The Boy Who Didn't.


_August 18__th__, 2003_

The 2:30 train rattled past his rickety flat, rousing him from his slumber. The elevated tracks ran parallel to his complex, which was located in South London. Beneath his flat lay the dense network of abandoned tunnels where the trains had run before sewage flooded them. The aboveground substitute ran at every half-hour mark, tearing through the city on steel stilts. The poorly constructed complex he lived in was shaking on its foundations from the sheer force of the train roaring by overhead. His small, cramped flat was vibrating. Harry rolled over in his bed and clutched at the crumpled sheets as his sleep-addled mind formulated a dirty joke about a vibrating bed and the necessity of making love to his girlfriend.

"Gin," he mumbled groggily, blindly reaching out into the dark. His hand passed through empty air, but his mind couldn't process the implications of that. "Ginny," he said, calling out to his girlfriend again. It was a purely physical response; he didn't even have to open his eyes. He knew from countless nights of experience that he'd find her warm body tangled in the sheets next to his. A wry smile curled his lips as he reached farther, expanding his search.

"Ginny, where are…come here."

It took him a moment. His heavy-lidded eyes opened, and he blearily gazed into the dark, willing the shapeless silhouettes around him to solidify into discernible surroundings.

He'd been lying in bed alone.

The train had passed, and he could hear a bird warbling outside his window in the dead of night, safely lodged in a tree.

"Ginny," he murmured, his eyes widening as hideous, all-consuming fear reared its head in the pit of his stomach. He was caught in a waking nightmare, one foot grounded in reality, the other tangled in a dream world where Ginny's absence could only mean one thing—

_No, please. Please. Please. It doesn't make sense. _

He righted himself, grasping the sheets and attempting to rid himself of their confines; he stumbled out of bed headfirst, crashing into the floor and dragging the linen with him, and blinked up at the blades of the fan slowly whirring above him.

The door to the bedroom opened.

"Bloody hell, Harry, what are you doing on the floor?"

Harry pulled himself up. "Don't open the door so goddamn hard, Gin," he muttered. "You're breaking the wall behind it."

Ginny Weasley shook her head slowly as she took in the sight of her disheveled boyfriend.

"Go to sleep, Harry. Or don't. You've got work in a few hours, anyway," she said, and turned to go, slamming the door behind her. One of the rusted bronze hinges mutinously quivered before abandoning its post and tumbling to the carpeted floor.

"Fuck."

Harry groaned and tried the door. He had to force it open—after years of abuse and enduring arguments between him and Ginny, it seemed their bedroom door had given in at last. He couldn't even bring himself to feel irate about the matter. He was impressed it had lasted this long.

He entered their makeshift kitchen in the adjoining room. Ginny was seated at the coffee table that served as the centerpiece for the room, and Harry took a seat next to her. They were both silent, and Harry felt a deep sense of peace, with night's darkness erasing everything around him but the elegant curve of his girlfriend's neck, and the slopes and planes of her face.

She stood abruptly, scraping her chair across the ground as she pushed it back, and cupped her hands around the gas lamp fixed to the wall.

"_Lumos_," she whispered. The darkness dissipated. The dingy kitchen with dishes piled high in the broken sink snapped into focus.

"You shouldn't have done that," Harry said, his voice rough from sleep. "I bought matches last week—a pack for two blood sickles."

Ginny sighed and pushed her chair closer before sitting again. She burrowed her face into the crook of his arm. "Why are you up, Harry?"

"The train woke me," he said.

"And why were you on the floor?" She pressed herself closer to the side of his body, and he moved his arm up over her shoulders so he could feel her warm breath against his bare chest.

"I was half asleep. I thought you were Missing."

"And you jumped out of bed to rescue me?" She sounded amused, and she extricated herself from his embrace to rest her chin on his shoulder. Her arms snaked around him. "You, Harry Dursley, disgruntled part-time Ministry employee, were going to rescue me while clad in nothing but boxers?"

"Boxers _and_ socks," Harry said helpfully. "You forgot the socks. And since when was I disgruntled?"

"Since you failed your last peer-review at work. And I quote—'Harry exhibits little to no interest in his work, and seems unsatisfied with current working conditions; is a disgruntled cog in the ministerial process. Does not play well with other children.'"

"You just made that all up," Harry said, grinning as he attempted to kiss the top of Ginny's head.

She ducked out of the way. "Some of it," she conceded with a shrug. "The disgruntled part is definitely true—ad verbatim from your peer-review. You left it on the kitchen table and I read it."

"So I suppose I've been rather bad," Harry said slowly. "You don't think I ought to be punished, maybe?"

"Harry," Ginny said, laughing. "Don't try to be sexy. I like you this way—dorky and disgruntled."

Harry's grin wavered. He'd only been half-joking, but lately she hadn't seemed interested in sleeping with him or even engaging in silly banter. It was only in odd, stolen moments like the present that he was able to remind himself that she was fond of him.

"Gin," he said, "why are _you_ up?"

"Couldn't sleep," she said simply.

"We've got some diluted Sleeping Draught in the cupboard," he said, rising.

"No, we don't. I've had to take it quite often before bed, recently, and we're out."

Harry made a quick decision. He wanted to stretch his legs and get away from the suffocating domesticity of the flat that was offset by the fact that the women he loved didn't seemed all that interested in him lately.

"I'll go out and get some."

"No, Harry—you don't have to pay. Just stay and we can talk more. I like this."

"I don't mind paying," Harry said tersely, slipping on his shoes. Of course she'd think it was the price he'd object to—not the fact that she had failed to inform him about her recurring insomnia. They'd been a couple for nearly six years now. That was the sort of thing she should have told him.

"Harry…" she said, trailing off.

"I'll see you in a bit," he said, his voice muffled as he pulled on a shirt that'd been lying on the couch.

"Harry, honestly, it's not necess—"

The door shut behind him as he stepped out into the cool London air.

A few of the streetlamps magically sputtered to life and lit the road, having sensed the presence of a pedestrian. Cracks spread like spider webs across the tarred street, and weeds spring up in their wake. Harry hadn't thought to grab his keys off the counter, so he gingerly made his way down the ruined road, trying to be as quiet as possible to avoid waking the neighbors.

The apothecary was a few blocks down; it was about a quarter of a kilometer past the nearest pub. Harry would have killed for a drink, but he hated the atmosphere at the The Hog's Head. He didn't want some underage, poor, South London girl to dance her way over and offer him a drink—he just wanted the drink, and perhaps to hold on to a shred of his dignity.

Harry ducked his head as he passed the pub and continued on down the street. The lights at the apothecary were off. He lingered at the doorstep for a moment, and then reached out to knock on the wooden door. It swung open before he could, revealing the herb and potion packed shelves within. Dozens of people passed through the store every day, and for the door to magically swing open for each of them was a lavish display of wealth the likes of which many of Harry's East London co-workers might not even have been able to afford.

He should have found it repulsive. There were masses of poverty-stricken Londoners who could have used that blood magic to survive.

"'Ello, young man. What can I fetch for ye?"

Harry nearly jumped. The owner of the store had appeared behind the counter; he was an old man, hunched over with age and garbed in roughly-hewn brown robes. Half-moon glasses were perched atop his bulbous nose.

Harry stepped forward. "Sleeping Draught, please. Diluted down to three parts water per—"

"That'll be three blood galleons," the old man said, interrupting him. He snapped his fingers and the lights in the shop flickered on. From within his robes, he drew out a glistening vial.

"Three?" Harry echoed incredulously.

"Price is up, aye. There've been some issues with the herb harvest."

"Shit," Harry muttered. "You're asking me for a month's worth of magic on minimum wage," Harry said. "That's _impossible_ around these parts."

"Then I'm afraid I can't give this to ye," the man replied.

Harry placed his hand flat against the countertop. "Listen, loan it to me, will you? I'll have the magic next week when I get paid—I haven't got enough to spare at the moment, and my girlfriend needs this."

The aged wizard snatched the bottle off the counter, his yellowed fingers wrapping around it protectively as he thrust it back into the folds of his robes. "Mister Dursley, aye?"

Harry nodded.

"There are others who need this more an' they can pay—ain't one good reason for me to give this to ye. Off with ye, now. Go on," he said, shooing Harry away.

"That's bullshit," Harry hissed. "Don't pretend you need the money." He wouldn't leave—he'd hit a psychological block of sorts; he could just imagine the way Ginny's face would look if he came back with what he'd set out for, and he was determined she'd gaze at him like that—eyes aglow and cheeks flushed.

The old man frowned and reached within his robes again. It was a practiced movement, one that Harry had seen Lords do frequently on the rare occasions they visited his department. The man extracted a thin sliver of wood from his robes and gave a sharp jab in Harry's direction.

"_Expeliarmus!_"

Harry was thrown backwards through the open doorway and onto the street, the door slamming shut before him. His glasses slipped down his nose as the back of his head hit the ground with a sickening crack. There was a slight pause before his body registered excruciating, white-hot pain. It felt like someone had put a pistol to the back of his head and pulled the trigger at point-blank range. He could feel the pain irradiating outwards from the base of his skull.

He rolled onto his side, nausea overtaking him as his vision swam before his eyes, and vomited onto the sidewalk. Harry feebly wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and located his glasses. The right lens was cracked. He pulled them on and lurched to his feet, but was overcome by nauseating pain once more. His body was too disoriented to hold itself up, and he staggered to the apothecary door and braced himself against the cool wood. This time, it didn't open.

"Oh Christ," he muttered, and bent over to dry heave.

He waited a few moments before attempting to walk again, and this time he fared better. He took short, halting steps, and made his way down the street. The lights at his complex were out. He fiddled with the lock, but it held.

Harry cursed. If he tried to open the lock with magic, he'd be cutting it close. He was practically running on empty; he needed enough magic to pay the toll to pass into East London for work.

It was a cruelly ironic twist of fate, but Harry had been the one to break the news to the public that there had been a devastating draught that'd wiped out much of the year's harvest at the herb mills. Harry's article in The Prophet had reported that it was due to the temperamental climate caused by Dementor breeding cycles.

It had been his first time that his superiors at the Department of Public Information Dissemination had handed him an assignment for a major paper, and Harry had several copies of the edition his article had been printed in tucked away beneath his bed.

Perhaps it was karmic retribution for his dutiful dishonesty to the public that the price of Sleeping Draught had been jacked up due to a shortage of herbs. In all his life, though, he'd never seen someone who lived in South London in possession of a wand. The aged, robed wizard that ran the apothecary looked like a caricature of the wizards from medieval times. That gimmicky little fucker had been showing off. It wasn't as if Harry would've stolen the draught.

Harry seated himself on the steps and tentatively probed beneath his dark, messy hair to locate the hard lump that had formed where his head had come into contact with the pavement. The pain had died down abruptly, which was fairly suspicious in itself. He'd heard stories of people receiving traumatic head injuries, going to sleep that night when the pain numbed, and then waking up blind—or worse, dying quietly in their sleep.

He needed to stay awake. He rose and began heading down the street in the opposite direction. He took a meandering route, biding his time as he passed dilapidated buildings, crumbling museums and monolithic buildings with cracked columns that were vestiges of the past. Most of them were empty, save for stray animals and the occasional squatter who made his home in them.

The tollbooth to enter East London was an aberration in the continuous brick wall that cordoned off the two territories. It was simply a bright blue orb mounted upon a fixed iron stake. Harry approached it slowly. At this ungodly hour, there were none of the other usual commuters passing between territories about. The man who usually guarded it was nowhere to be seen.

The orb brightened as he neared it. Harry placed his palm flat against it, and shut his eyes to shield them from the brilliant flash of light the orb emitted as it siphoned off some of his magic. It only took a few seconds, but the fatigue Harry experienced nearly caused him to keel over as the orb registered his magic and checked that he had the right to pass.

The light dimmed, but Harry kept his eyes shut. It made the next part a bit easier. He turned to face the brick wall and started off at a run, heading directly for it.

When his eyes opened, he was on the other side.

Instead of being surrounded by worn-down residences and marble ruins, he was in one of the Ministry's compounds. There were several uniform concrete buildings shaped eerily like large tombstones that were spaced a few hundred meters apart.

The Department of Public Information Dissemination was housed in several of the buildings, all located in the same quad. Harry working in Division I; his job was to process information handed down to him by his superiors by rewording it for public exposure. His quad seemed mostly deserted. Work didn't start for another half-hour, and Harry could only see one other person present standing outside the building across from his. The man looked tall and gangly, perhaps around his age, and had his back to Harry.

Harry grinned. This early in the morning, only a few of the nightshift workers would still be at the department. He had a strong feeling he knew who it was. He cupped his hands around his mouth. "Ron! Is that you?"

The exertion of yelling across the quad restarted the throbbing from Harry's head, and he winced slightly. The person he'd been addressing jumped; it seemed they hadn't realized Harry had been approaching. They hesitated a moment before turning to face him. It was still dark out, and he could scarcely make out anything more than the man's silhouette. Still, it stood to reason that it was Ron.

Harry sped up a bit. "If you're waiting for me, that's the wrong fucking building, Ron," he called, laughing. Any minute now, the lamps in the quad would sense movement and brighten.

The person took in Harry's disheveled appearance, then abruptly pivoted on his feet and began to run.

"Hey! What the hell are you doing?" Harry yelled, his brisk walk breaking into a run as he approached him. The light's belatedly flickered on, momentarily blinding Harry. When he regained his bearings, the man was only a few feet from him, breathing heavily and rushing towards the gates he'd just entered through. His hood hood slipped down, revealing curly, light brown hair completely unlike Ron's ginger locks.

"Shit," Harry muttered. Could it be possible that he'd chanced upon a trespasser?

Harry sprang to action a moment too late and attempted to catch him. The pain in his head had returned with a vengeance, though, and he was blindly acting on principle rather than on logic. He missed the trespasser by a good three feet, and landed solidly on a square of empty grass. The man instinctively ducked to avoid him, and tripped. Harry lurched to his feet once more, grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, and found himself face to face with a freckled youth with bright hazel eyes; he gave Harry a stricken look, shoved him off, and scrambled to his feet.

Harry was too disconcerted to hold his ground. He stumbled backwards, and watched as the adolescent raced away.

"What the hell…" Harry repeated, trailing off. He watched in shock as the boy scaled the wall and disappeared into South London. He didn't seem to be affected by any of the magical defenses or curses that should have hindered his progress.

Harry glanced around again, sure that a guard or even a Death Eater monitoring the compound would descend upon him. This sort of thing was unheard of. Breaking and entering into a Ministry quad and crossing over the walls dividing territories without being detected? The possibility that the boy was a muggle, and was therefore less likely to be affected by the enchantments on the wall crossed Harry's mind, but that seemed unlikely as well. He didn't know how magic affected muggles, and in any case, muggles were locked into the Outskirts once curfew was enforced.

The quad was still deserted; the lights flickered off once more, and no one sprang forward from the darkness to clap Harry in irons and accuse him of abetting the boy's escape.

He heaved a deep sigh, attempting to steady the pace of his breathing, and started forward, heading for the spot across the quad where the boy had been loitering when he'd arrived. Something crunched beneath his feet in the grass. Harry yelped and jumped backwards. He was still on edge from his bizarre, surreal encounter.

Harry prodded the ground with his foot lightly, searching for what he'd trodden upon. Lying on the grass where the youth had fallen was a camera. He stood frozen to the spot for a moment, contemplating his next course of action.

There was strict protocol defining the role of Ministry employees. If he examined the camera without alerting guards that there was a break-in at the compound, he could be charged with tampering with evidence. Harry glanced at his wristwatch. It was 3:20 AM. The night-shift ended at around 2:30, and the first employees for the day shift wouldn't start trickling in until around 6:00. He had time.

He picked up the camera, tucked it under his arm, and hurried across the quad.

"Holy shit," he murmured, drawing to an abrupt stop at the opposing wall. It became alarmingly evident what the boy had been doing here. His purpose was brazenly splashed across the wall itself. It seemed, though, that the boy hadn't finished whatever it was he'd been trying to paint onto the wall's surface. There were only a few words sprayed onto the brick wall to give evidence to his orphaned thought, and Harry couldn't make them out in the dark.

Vandalism that was this blatant and strategically located was a crime that wouldn't go unnoticed. Harry wanted as little to do with this as possible. He hesitated a moment, contemplating leaving the camera right there, but was consumed by fear. He'd touched it already, and god only knew how the Ministry went about acquiring information from evidence. If they were able to trace it back to him, Ginny would be the one to wake up one morning and find him Missing.

He kept the camera securely under his arm as he walked back over to his building. He was overcome by an irrational sense of paranoia, and forced himself to walk slowly; if he were being observed, he wanted to give off an air of nonchalance.

He had a change of clothes in his drawer, as it was required that Ministry workers keep a spare set of clothes. The publicly accepted reason was that having them on hand was a precautionary measure in case they were asked to pull an overnighter. The generally understood reason was that many of the men at the Ministry frequented the brothels of muggle London instead of heading home when they clocked out.

Before the change of clothes became mandatory, employees would show up disheveled and smelling of beer in the same clothes they'd worn the day before.

When he reached his cubicle, he flicked on the lights and the decades-old electrical system sparked to life. Harry slammed the door shut and momentarily rested his forehead against it, breathing deeply. He waited until his erratic breathing calmed, and then stripped off his undershirt and trousers and slipped on the ironed white shirt and slacks he'd placed in his drawer. He'd have to make do with his muddy Nikes. He deposited the camera and the clothes he'd worn on the way there into the drawer and closed it tightly.

Harry seated himself at his desk, and reclined in his chair, nervously drumming his fingers across the top. It was several hours before other employees would show up, and he knew that Ginny would be worried about where he was. Gradually, sleep stole over him, and he dreamt wild dreams of motorcycles and giants and the curly-haired youth returning to the compound accompanied by a group of Death Eaters so he could turn Harry in.

He awoke to the sounds of footsteps in the corridor outside his locked door. The sun was beginning to creep over the horizon, and he found that if he tilted his chair backwards and looked through the window at the right angle, he could see the blood red paint drying against the opposing building's entrance:

_POTTER WILL RISE_

* * *

**A/N:** Publishing this at last because I've been trying for three months to get my half-finished thoughts to coalesce into something concrete. Everything will be explained in time. If you enjoyed it and want to read more, please leave a review. :)


End file.
